


wipe you clean with dirty hands

by thelaststormqueen



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 06:26:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8654227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelaststormqueen/pseuds/thelaststormqueen
Summary: Mr. Graves helps Credence take a shower.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning for dubious consent and a generally unhealthy relationship.
> 
> Title from [this song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=prGptG5Ex1gtt/)

“I’ll run the tub for you,” Mr. Graves says, shortly after they arrive in his chambers. “A bath will do you some good.”

“I-“ Credence starts, and cuts himself off before he does something foolish like say _no_ to Mr. Graves.

He does long to wash himself, but not in a bathtub, not where he’ll sit and simmer in a vat of water soiled by the day’s dirt, of his own filth. Credence wets his lips nervously and says, eyes on the ground, “Maybe- perhaps a shower, if that’s all right, if-“

“Of course,” replies Mr. Graves, and pats him on the back. His hand rests between Credence’s shoulder blades, and he does his best not to press into the touch. “Anything you need."

The room where Mr. Graves has been staying is small, but nicely furnished, barely a trace of magic save for the wand that’s been left on the bedside table. The bedroom connects to a small bathroom, hosting not only a large bathtub and shower but a small sink as well. Mr. Graves guides him to the bathroom, hand splayed across his back, and stops by the sink.

Mr. Graves withdraws a straight razor from his pocket, and Credence freezes. The blade unfolds, shining in the lamp light, and Mr. Graves says, “Are you old enough to shave, boy?”

“I’m twenty-four,” Credence manages. His heart had stopped beating frantically at the sight of the razor, but it starts up again when Mr. Graves shrugs out of his coat and vest, down to his clean pressed white shirt. It’s the first time he’s seen Mr. Graves without his heavy coat. “Not yet, sir.”

“Hmm.” Mr. Graves sets the blade on the sink and glances over at Credence. “Well, go on then.”

He’s almost forgotten about the shower. Credence stammers out an excuse and fumbles his way out of his own jacket, hands shaking slightly. He gets his jacket and boots off before looking up to find Mr. Graves still standing there, eyes calm and appraising. 

“You’re trembling,” observes Mr. Graves. “Let me help you.”

Credence does his best to stand perfectly still while Mr. Graves crosses the narrow gap between them and begins undoing his tie, the buttons underneath it. He feels oddly like Mr. Graves is unwrapping him, that by the time he gets down to Credence’s skin he’ll be able to peel away the layers of flesh until there’s nothing left. He wants this, wants Mr. Graves to take him apart.

This doesn’t happen. Mr. Graves stops when he reaches Credence’s undershirt and says, “I’ll turn the water on. You can take off your trousers yourself.”

Credence feels shame wash over him. He’d somehow expected that Mr. Graves would do that for him too, but that’s ridiculous, disgusting. Quickly, Credence strips his down to his underwear, and keeps his eyes on the ground until he hears the shower turn on.

Mr. Graves returns, shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and Credence does his best not to stare. His eyes flick over Credence’s half-naked body only once before saying, “Go ahead.”

“Please don’t leave me,” Credence hears himself say weakly.

In response, Mr. Graves only chuckles, quiet and mild.

“I’ll be right here, my dear boy,” he assures Credence. The endearment is soft, gentle, almost possessive. This, too, strangely makes Credence shiver. “I’m going to freshen up- shave a little- and I’ll wait in the bedroom when you’re done.”

Credence can only nod. 

The water is lukewarm when he steps in to the shower, but Credence doesn’t mind. He can hear Mr. Graves moving about on the other side of the shower curtain, the sound of the sink running, of the muted scrape of the straight razor against his stubble. He can almost see him through the opaque shower curtain if he focuses: Mr. Graves dragging the blade up his throat, leaning against the sink, confident and unbothered by the blade’s presence. Credence cuts his eyes away from the silhouette, suddenly fearful that Mr. Graves will turn to look at him through the curtain.

When the water begins to run cold, Credence leans into it. He imagines that the cold has the ability to wipe away the filth in his soul, the heat that swells in his stomach and between his legs when Mr. Graves touches him. He imagines that when he steps out of the shower next, he’ll be completely devoid of sin, all of it washed away by the shower spray.

“Credence,” says Mr. Graves, and it startles him. “Do you have enough soap in there?”

Credence glances around the tub: no soap to be found. He hopes Mr. Graves hasn’t realized that he’s been immobile in the shower this whole time. “N-no, sir.”

The silhouette behind the shower curtain shifts, and then Mr. Graves’ hand is pulling aside the curtain. Reflexively, Credence cups his hands around his groin.

“The water’s too cold,” he remarks. “You’re going to freeze to death in here.”

“I’m fine,” Credence says hastily, and takes a step back. He feels all too vulnerable, his wet underclothes clinging to him and nearly translucent, next to a nearly clothed Mr. Graves.

“I don’t want you in any more pain than you already are,” says Mr. Graves, and his voice is low. He fiddles with the dials until the water rushes warm over Credence, who flinches in response. It’s too hot, too luxurious, and it’s making the blood run warm and disobedient in his veins towards his cupped hands. “There. Is that better?”

Credence glances back at Mr. Graves, and shifts his body away to hide himself, his horrible erection. He turns, exposing his back, and hears Mr. Graves’ sharp intake of breath.

“What?” he says worriedly, and hunches over. _Please don’t let him notice this, I don’t want this-_

“Did she do that to you?” asks Mr. Graves tightly, and Credence has a moment of sheer confusion before he feels Mr. Graves’ fingertips on his shoulder blade. It makes him want to jump out of his skin, but Credence forces himself to stay still.

He must not have noticed Credence’s shame, but this is still embarrassing- he’s undoubtably found the wound from several days ago, not quite healed or faded on his back. Mr. Graves presses his hand against it, and Credence shakes.

“Yes, sir,” he manages. Mr. Graves’ fingers feel hot against his flesh, hotter than the water, and Credence feels his body respond in the worst way. “It isn’t- it’s just a scar-“

“Shh,” Mr. Graves hushes him, and Credence closes his mouth worriedly. “I’ll fix it when you’re done washing up.”

He nods obligingly, eyes downturned. Credence waits for Mr. Graves to grow bored with the wound and leave, but he doesn’t, just stands there in the faint spray from the shower dampening his shirt.

“Credence,” repeats Mr. Graves, and his voice is low and even. “Will you let me help you?”

“Yes, sir,” Credence says automatically, breathlessly. 

Credence expects him to get his wand, but instead Mr. Graves just begins undoing the buttons on his own shirt, stripping down to his own undershirt. It’s so unexpected that Credence finds himself speechless, throat tight, until he begins shucking off his pants.

“I,” he blurts out, but can’t think of anything to say.

Mr. Graves just looks up at him evenly, dropping his trousers, and Credence struggles to maintain eye contact. He tries to think about the cold New York winters, the bite of his belt buckle on his skin when his mother beats him, anything other than the way the warm water and an undressing Mr. Graves is making him feel.

Mr. Graves steps into the shower with him, water soaking into his underclothes and neatly coiffed hair, and Credence swallows hard. He can see the lines of muscles under his shirt, the way the wet fabric clings to his thighs, and Credence shuts his eyes.

 _You’re too susceptible to temptation. Wicked boy._ His mother has always been right about him.

“I’ll get your back,” Mr. Graves says calmly, and begins lathering the soap between his hands. Credence turns away from him swiftly, baring his back and the sharp bones of his spine. He’s so hard it nearly hurts, the kind of hurt he can’t lean into.

Mr. Graves’ hands find Credence’s back. It’s more skin-to-skin contact than Credence has ever had in his life, Mr. Graves’ hands are so big on him, heavy and strong, and Credence feels vaguely lightheaded as his hands massage the soap into his back.

 _Don’t stop,_ he thinks desperately, _don’t ever stop touching me._

“You’re still shaking,” comes Mr. Graves’ voice from behind him. “Are you nervous?”

Credence shakes his head, and hears the other man sigh gently.

“Turn around and face me,” Mr. Graves commands.

He wants to, badly, but he can’t- Credence is all too aware of how disgusting he must look from the front, how clearly he must be wearing his shame on his face and body, red-cheeked and hard and awful.

“I can’t.”

_“Credence.”_

“Please,” he says, almost a whimper, and then Mr. Graves’ hands are on his shoulders, turning his upper half towards him. Credence follows, keeps his eyes closed, and hears himself babbling, “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to-“

Mr. Graves’ hands are on his face now, each hand on each side of his face, wet and insistent, and Credence’s eyes flutter open. Mr. Graves is standing with his back to the shower, and water rushes over the back of his head and his strong shoulders. His face, so close to Credence’s, is composed and calm. 

“It’s all right,” says Mr. Graves. “My dear boy, there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“No.” Credence shakes his head again. He wants to start crying, feels the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, but doesn’t want to embarrass himself even more. “I’m disgusting, I know it, I’m just a-“

“There is,” Mr. Graves enunciates firmly, and strokes Credence’s jaw with his thumb, “ _nothing_ wrong with you. I promise you.”

Credence lets out a long, shaky breath, and his shoulders slump. The water is beginning to run warmer and warmer, almost hot. He leans forward before he can help himself, and Credence presses his forehead against Mr. Graves’.

There is a moment of silence, just the sound of the rushing water, and then Mr. Graves says quietly, lips almost against his: “Oh, Credence.”

“Please,” Credence says, although he doesn’t know exactly what he’s asking for.

Mr. Graves just strokes his jaw again, featherlight, and says, “Get on your knees.”

Credence obeys, kneeling even though he doesn’t understand why. He keeps his eyes on Mr. Graves, staring up at him into the shower spray, eyes squinted against the water. He can’t see much, just the vague shape of Mr. Graves above him, and closes his eyes again. Credence is still dizzy from the contact and the heat and his erection, but he lets it fade away.

When Credence finally settles, legs pressing against the sides of the bathtub, Mr. Graves cups a hand around his jaw gently and says, “Do you trust me?”

“Yes, sir,” replies Credence without pause. The water running over his face is still hot, so hot, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t even flinch when Mr. Graves’ thumb wanders up from his jaw onto his mouth, parting his lips and teeth. 

Credence isn’t sure what he’s doing, but he _does_ trust Mr. Graves, and trusts that whatever is happening, it’s for a good reason. He lets Mr. Graves open his mouth, lets two of his thick fingers press against his tongue. He’s going to be obedient for him, whatever’s going to happen.

“Open,” Mr. Graves says from above him, his voice a low rasp, and Credence obliges as Mr. Graves withdraws his fingers. “Good boy. No teeth, now.”

 _No teeth,_ thinks Credence with no small amount of confusion, _what does he-_ and then there’s something else pressing past his lips, not fingers-

“Oh,” Credence tries to say when his eyes flutter open, but his voice is cut off by Mr. Graves thrusting himself into his mouth. He knows what this is, what Mr. Graves is doing now, but Credence is startled nonetheless. _This is wrong,_ he thinks, _this is wrong and immoral and I’m scared-_

He attempts to say something else, but then Mr. Graves’ hand is in his hair, tugging him further down. Credence chokes, but Mr. Graves just exhales sharply and keeps him there. 

The idea of struggling passes through Credence’s mind, but he doesn’t act on it. He doesn’t like this- doesn’t like having Mr. Graves in his mouth and, oh, god, down his throat- but this isn’t anyone, this is Mr. Graves, the man who’s going to save him. Credence knows he owes him, this and more.

Above him, Mr. Graves rasps out, “Good- just like that-"

Credence tries to relax his throat, and Mr. Graves mutters a curse word under his breath. The water spraying on his face is edging on burning, and Credence tries to concentrate on that, on Mr. Graves’ hand in his hair instead of the ache in his jaw and throat. 

“You’re doing so well,” he hears Mr. Graves say lowly, “so good, for me.”

Credence tries nodding, and Mr. Graves moans. 

“It’s all right,” Mr. Graves says, “go ahead. You can touch yourself.”

In his shock, Credence has almost forgotten about his own body. Almost. He withdraws himself from his own wet underclothes, the other hand bracing himself on the shower floor. Credence needs only to touch himself once, twice, before he climaxes with a whine around Mr. Graves.

“Good boy,” he hears Mr. Graves say above him, and Credence lets out a muffled sob. He feels boneless, wrung-out, and lets Mr. Graves card his hand through Credence’s hair while he thrusts in and out of his mouth. He can take it now, really, he will.

When Mr. Graves climaxes, it’s with a drawn-out groan, so far down Credence’s throat that he can barely taste it. He pulls out of his mouth, soft, lingering only for a second on Credence’s lips before tucking himself back in his underclothes.

“You’ve done well,” he tells Credence, and turns around to shut off the water. It’s sudden and unexpected, and Credence blinks. With no water in his eyes, he can look up and see Mr. Graves fully now: every detail, no blur. 

Oddly enough, all Credence can think is that his eyes look blank. Not calm, not still, just blank.

“Yes, sir,” Credence replies. His throat hurts, and he drops his gaze from Mr. Graves.

He didn’t like it, what’s just happened, but Credence knows well enough that whether or not he liked it doesn’t matter. Mr. Graves has done him such a kindness to take him off the street for a few moments, even to do this, and it’s not his place to ask for anything more.

Mr. Graves stretches, and then carefully exits the shower. Credence watches his silhouette behind the curtain gather his clothes and retreat to the door.

“I,” he says before he can stop himself. Credence doesn’t exactly know what to ask for, if he’s even allowed to ask anything of Mr. Graves. “Will I see you again? After this?”

When Mr. Graves speaks again, his voice, too, is blank.

“You know the answer to that, Credence,” he says, devoid of any emotion, and yes, Credence does know the answer before he even says anything. “First you must find the child.” 

“Of course,” responds Credence quietly.

Of course.

Then the silhouette moves, and Mr. Graves’ shape opens the bathroom door and walks out, leaving Credence alone and shaking once again in the cold.


End file.
